


A Drop of Darkness

by Crumpled_Paper (LilyBlackthorn)



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Gen, Secret Identity, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilyBlackthorn/pseuds/Crumpled_Paper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Never again will a Phantomhive returns to the throne of being the Queen’s watchdog, for every one of them were sent back to hell, where they belonged." </p><p>For five years, England’s undergrounds were at last free from the Phantomhives. But they didn’t know that one remained behind, forced to live a lonely life within the shadows. Under a different name. A different identity. Until Fate crossed his path with a n odd stranger named Sebastian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Lester's Square, East London  
December 3, 1893_

_When will you stop falling? You are nothing short of trouble._

The window of No. 2 was misted up, so a pale, slender finger slid down it to create a clear streak. It enabled the boy to see that the cobbled courtyard at Lester's Square was covered completely with snow. A lone dead tree stood guard on one side of the yard, where there's a little patch of earth available.

Clarence Baker had always hated winter for its cruel, unforgiving weather, and the past few days were the very depictions of those words. Snow had been falling continuously, and it wasn't giving signs of stopping anytime soon; turning London into a dull, monochromatic city.

The cold forced him to stay inside most of the time, going out only to Undertaker's for work in the mornings. Today was Sunday, though, his day off, and he'd spent the whole day reading the final two chapters of a book, perched upon his favourite spot: the window ledge. With the book finished and thus no longer occupying his mind now, his deep-blue eyes scanned his meagre, simply furnished apartment, taking in the battered desk and chair, as well as the worn bed. A candle was burning itself out on one corner of the desk. Not far from it, a few books he'd borrowed were in a stack, none unread. The air smelled of clay and winter.

He glanced outside for one last time, and slipped off the ledge. He made his way towards the desk and added the book he'd finished reading onto the pile.

Fingers tapped to an unknown rhythm against the desk's wooden surface.  
Then they stopped.

_Damn the weather. I'm going._

***

Four distant tolls of a bell told the city's inhabitants that it was only four in the evening. Yet the sky was already darkening to a hue of grey. Vague rays of the remaining daylight were wandering aimlessly everywhere in between the falling snowflakes. An eerie silence greeted Clarence as he crossed the courtyard, with the books under his arm, and the dead tree – which struck out rather like a tall, thin man with countless arms – looking down at him. He kicked his way through the thick snow, aware that its wetness was starting to soak through his poorly laced boots and his socks within, one which bored a hole at the toe.

He exited Lester's Square through a narrow passage, which leads him out onto Cobourg Street. Pedestrians blurred out in greys as they rushed in different directions, desperately craving for the warmth of their homes. The boy quickened his pace too, and soon enough a signboard of a shop further down the street caught his eyes. The warm orange light glowing from its large windows beckoned him to enter.

Once the street was clear, he crossed it, careful as to not step in any grey slush, towards the  _Midford and Sons Book Shop_. Despite the name, there were no sons of the Midford family working or even owning the book shop. Instead, it was run by the father, and the daughter.

For a few seconds, he stood outside the windows with his hands deep in his pockets, watching the girl with the wavy corn-blonde hair behind the counter.

She didn't notice him as he did that.

***

Elizabeth Midford was sitting behind the counter, an opened book in her lap, when the little golden bells sounded, announcing a customer. With a forced smile, she got to her feet; ready to greet the customer who was crazy enough to face the blizzard out there. Or perhaps the gentle man or woman merely wished to take shelter in the shop. The smile dropped though, when she saw that it was only Clarence.

'Oh, it's just you,' she said monotonously, taking in the shambled appearance of her friend: his dark hair tousled, with bits of snowflakes clung to the soft strands. The tip of his nose was bright pink and his face a few shades too pale. His blue eyes that she had always loved gazing into were looking at her expectantly.

'It's really cold out. Where were you from?' she asked, thinking that he dropped by on the way back from somewhere. Certainly not work, because she knew Sundays were his day off. It was only then that she saw the books in his arms. Her eyes narrowed. 'Wait. Home?'

He didn't answer her, and instead put the books down on the counter, with trembling hands.

'Clarence, you're shaking like a leaf in the wind!' she exclaimed worriedly, grabbing his hands. They were icy to her touch.

'I came here to return these and take new ones,' he finally said, tugging his hands away. His jaws were literally rattling, but he was trying, and failing hard, at keeping a nonchalant air about him.

She stomped around the counter towards him, shaking her head. 'I'm not letting you take any new ones before there's some colour on your cheeks. You look like the dead!' She knew she sounded stricken with worry, but she had every reason to. She feared that his asthma would worsen.

Ignoring her, he started heading towards the bookshelves. 'I'll be fine if I just move around for a bit. Are there any books that–' Elizabeth grabbed him by his arm.

'No,' she said firmly, as if a mother talking to her child. 'No books for you until you are all warmed up. Come on, there's tea at the back.'

He let her pull him towards the back of the shop, where there was a cosily lit room with a couple of armchairs and a round table. A hearth burnt brightly in one corner, heating the entire room. A bread box, a pot of hot tea, and a flask filled with coffee sat on the table. 'Sit,' ordered Elizabeth, making sure that he was sitting as close to the hearth as possible. Then she took out a cup and poured the tea in. She knew Clarence didn't like coffee much. Then she handed it to him.

He grumbled, but accepted the offer. He couldn't continue the act; his hair felt sticky and damp; his feet frozen. 'Thanks, Lizzy,' he said. As he sipped at it, the girl watched as he visibly shivered when the hot liquid entered his cold body.

'What were you thinking!?' she asked, her face twisted with worry. 'This cold could have triggered your asthma!'

'On Sundays, I'm an idler. You know that, don't you?' Clarence said casually, setting down the cup on the small desk beside him. 'Besides, I've finished reading all of them. I need new ones.'

'Idle as you were, don't go risking your health for such a mundane task as borrowing books!' she said, her voice a tad higher than she meant. 'Can't it wait till the weather had let up, at least?'

'Stop worrying so much about me, Lizzy,' Clarence replied flatly.

She blushed. 'I'm not! And you know what? I think you ought to work on Sundays too. Just to keep you busy and from acting so foolishly!'

'You could have died,' she added quietly.

Looking up, he saw that Elizabeth was glaring at the hearth, instead of him. Her pine-green eyes that he'd always find beautiful reflected the crackling flame and the burning cokes. Her cream-coloured dress with black trimmings that hugged her graceful body. Her flaxen hair that smelt of roses.  _How very pretty._ Another sip of the tea was taken. 'Where's your father?'

'Upstairs, napping,' Elizabeth replied quickly, before standing up. She gave a small sigh, and pinched the bridge of her nose. Then she looked down at the boy in the armchair. 'Just... stay by the hearth, please. And I don't want to see you back in the shop for at least another ten minutes.'

She stood fidgety for a second as if she wanted to say something, before leaving him alone to his thoughts.

He watched as the clock's hands hovered over the numbers, going from one to twelve, and repeating the cycle. Ten minutes passed, and the heat had perfectly warmed him, but he lingered a bit longer as to not upset Elizabeth. He didn't want to upset her any more than he had. The hands made another two rounds, and he entered the shop to find that Elizabeth had taken her initial place behind the counter before he came barging in.

She was reading again.

On the black cover of the book in her hands,  _Oliver Twist_  gleamed in gold.

'You know how it is,' she said, without looking up from the pages. 'You can pick whichever ones you want, bar the ones on the first shelf. Those are new. Give me the list of which you are taking once you're done. I don't care if you take so many books to the point that you can't carry them alone. You might as well make this irrational trip of yours worth it in the end.'

He blinked once. 'Thanks,' he said with a small smile, and went off towards the maze of bookshelves, letting the familiar smell of ink and paper envelope him. Clarence loved books, and sometimes he'd spend hours in choosing. He was particularly well-versed in the works of an author named Arthur. A pseudonym or the man's real name, he didn't know. In his opinion, the stories written by the man were fresh. And freshness of writing was what he was seeking for in this bleak world.

The  _Midford and Sons Book Shop_  offered both new and used books for sell, and Clarence was the only customer who they gave the privilege of taking books, without actually buying them. Not as if he had the money to buy any, though. The only money he possessed at one time is a few shillings at the most; his earnings from working with Undertaker. Elizabeth and her father allowed him to take as many books as he wants from the shop, but he would always limits himself to three books each time. He felt as if he was taking advantage on their kindness if he were to take so many.

A mere stranger without blood ties to them, he never understood why the Midfords showed him kindness – a human trait which he thought was lost from this godforsaken land. For five long years, it was a trait which he sought to have of his own. He'd lost it as time passes by.

Perhaps, on a summer day years ago, he  _had_  truthfully showed it and offered it to Elizabeth.

Kindness, that is.

That summer day was the first time he ever laid eyes on her. He was going through the back alley of the book shop, a shortcut to his new home, when the breeze carried along the tune of a weeping girl. That was when he saw a black-clad figure sat hunched on the steps of the shop's backdoor. Wavy blonde hair tumbled down the figure's shoulders. She was alone.

He didn't know what possessed him to go up to her, but he soon found himself sitting beside her even though she never asked him to, to offer her his only handkerchief. She looked up then. They were strangers, but her drenched eyes spoke a thousand words when they met his.

Wearing black weeds which contrasted greatly against her fair skin, she told him that her mother and brother were dead.  
That they were stabbed to death on the way back from the evening theatre.  
That she hated the ones who took them away from her and her father forever.  
That she wished she could turn back the time.

He'd thought that the last sentence was stupid, because he'd done so himself if it was possible. But he didn't say that out loud.

Without words, she took his hand in hers, and held on so tightly that his hand turned white and balmy. They stayed that way for hours on the steps, until she fell asleep against his shoulder, her cheeks damp, and his handkerchief drowned in teardrops.

 _Tell me... was that kindness?_  
Staying by your side as you cried on... was that kindness, Elizabeth?  
You'll have to tell me, because I've forgotten how it feels like.  
I do hope it was.  
Or was that merely sympathy?

He walked through the aisle, and stopped, when a gap between a pair of bookshelves allowed him to peek at the counter. At Elizabeth. His eyes softened. He knew he loved her, but at the same time, he did not. He could not. His existence was never meant to be loved, or to love.

Like his father told him for so many times in the past, a man born within the ... family had always been made to live  _alone_  till he drew his last. Those words were carved deep into his heart, his mind, ever since he was little. He believed in it, because he knew it was the truth.

_I'm so very sorry, Lizzy._

He tore his gaze away from the girl, and his finger traced the title of a leather-bound volume:  _Songs of Innocence and of Experience. W. Blake._

***

Mr Midford rubbed at his eyes sleepily, as he descended down the stairs, and saw a blurry image of his daughter behind the counter. He approached her, but her deep-green eyes never looked up from the yellowing pages.

'Was there a customer while I took a snooze? I heard you talking to someone earlier,' asked Mr Midford. Elizabeth finally looked up at her father, who was in his usual white shirt and dark brown trousers, along with the braces on.

'It was Clarence,' she replied simply.

'Clarence? In this kind of weather?' said Mr Midford in disbelief, as he went towards the windows.

'You know how he is. Stubborn,' she said, without any true bites.

'You should've kept him here a bit longer. At least until the snowfall is no longer as heavy,' Mr Midford said, as he looked out to the street. Small hills of pure white snow were piling up on the corners where they were free from being stepped on, while tainted snow became pools of grimy slush. The gas lamps were already lit.

'He's stubborn,' Elizabeth repeated. 'I even offered him some more tea, but he insisted on going back after he got his books. He was literally blue from the cold when he entered the shop.'

Mr Midford shot a worried look towards his daughter, and Elizabeth rolled her eyes. 'Don't worry. He seemed fine, and I already gave him some boiling hot tea to take back home.' She left the book at the counter and went to stand by her father's side.

The two Midfords watched the almost empty street.  
Suddenly, two shady characters ran passed their shop.

Elizabeth shook her head. 'I hope Clarence is making the best use of his two feet to get out of this dreadful weather like those two men. Now father, shall we put the kettle on?'

***

Clarence Baker fought hard against the malicious wind, which never once stopped lapping at his face. As he was running past several closed shops towards Lester's Square, he suddenly heard rapid footsteps coming up from behind him. Before he could even turn around to take a look, two men hastened past him, knocking the books and the tea-filled flask down in the process.

'Damn kid!' one of them shouted rudely at him. A few choices of cursed words left Clarence's mouth too, and he bent to pick up the books from the ground. The flask had rolled a metre away from him. Luckily the leather covering kept it break-proof. 'Some manners they have,' he muttered bitterly, brushing the wet snow that had gotten on the books' covers. Elizabeth would have his head if he were to return the books damaged. In the distance, the two uncouth men disappeared around the street's corner.

With an annoyed huff, Clarence continued on until he reached the arched entrance of the passage leading into Lester's Square. The cold had penetrated through his few layers of clothes, and he was frozen down to his bones. He wanted nothing more than to curl under his blanket with the books, and to feel the hot tea burn his throat.

The courtyard was deserted, and the sound of the snow crunching underneath him bounced against the old walls. Hurriedly, he head towards the entrance to his building, but a movement out of the corner of his eye halted him.

***

Clarence's blue eyes scrutinized the darkness before him, expecting to see someone, but only the dead tree looked back at him.

He was about to turn around, brushing it off as his imagination, when someone, or some _thing,_  moved once more within the shadows. Finally, he saw it; behind the dead tree. From afar, it looked like a huge, black bag.

It jerked once more, to his surprise. This time Clarence realized that it was not a bag at all, but a man, slumped at the base of the tree with his two legs stretched out. With small steps, he advanced towards the odd figure until he was within an arm's reach.

A shiver ran down his spine. Not from the cold, but from the red-stained snow that surrounded the man.

Even in the gloom, one could see that one side of the man's unbuttoned coat was sodden with a mushy liquid, the colour of red, almost black. It was still fresh, still flowing out, and was quickly dyeing his shirt of the same colour. Even from one look, he knew that it was a grave injury. Fatal. The scene made his stomach turned, and the tea he drank threatened to come up. Swallowing a thick lump, he forced himself to focus on the head and no lower. The person had his chin resting against his chest, and his long inky fringes which fell forward covered his facial features from view. To his relieve, however, the man was still breathing, as there were white puffs in the air every time he exhaled.

Alive, no doubt, but barely.

He was at a lost of what to do. He reached out a hand, and poked the man at the shoulders, who responded with an almost inaudible moan. To ask the man 'are you all right?' sounded downright stupid, because the man was definitely  _not_  all right.

He looked around, and saw no one.  
Only him, the stranger, and the dead tree.

The snow slowly covered them in its whiteness.  
The frosty wind gradually numbed them as the minutes ticked by.

Clarence knew he had no choice.

***

'How could you lost him!?' bellowed a gruff voice, making the two men cowered in fear. 'Did you searched the area thoroughly!?'

'W-we did, sir! But we couldn't find him!' stuttered one of them, his legs giving out under him.

'You good for nothings!' shouted the large man, boiling with rage. Kelvin's outburst of anger could be heard throughout the whole building, sending his other men hiding where they would be spared of his wrath. 'How dare he wish to leave us! The ungrateful bastard! With all that I've given him, he turned his back on me.'

A tall, dark figure stepped in between the two frightened men. The golden-brown eyes that sat behind the pair of glasses were sharp, demonic. Eyes which has witnessed deaths.

'Kelvin, sir, can you allow me to see to this matter myself? One of the men shot him; he was injured quite terribly,' said the man calmly. 'I doubt he could've gone very far.'

Kelvin's eyes softened upon seeing the young man who looked so much like his once-beloved subordinate. His once  _most_  beloved subordinate, before he went and betrayed him. 'Faustus, you go then.'

'I will see to it that he's found as soon as possible,' Claude Faustus replied, a smirk tugging at his lips.

'Find him and bring him back. If he refuses, you know what to do,' the man said unfeelingly. 'You're the only one whom I can put my trust in right now, Faustus. Don't fail me.'

'Of course. Have no doubt in me, sir,' said, bowing at the waist in respect. Then he turned around to leave.

'Faustus?'

'Yes, sir?'

'If you find him dead, bring his body back.'

A final nod, and Claude Faustus set off into the night-fallen city, bracing himself against the blustery wind with nothing but a name on his mind: Sebastian Michaelis.

***

A small clunk made Clarence flinch, imagining the small deadly metal covered in blood, as he washed the bloodstained rags with water. The stains won't come off no matter how much he rubbed at them, leaving them tinted pink. Defeated, he drained and threw them into the metal bucket in the corner, together with the bloodied shirt.

'From a revolver, I think,' Undertaker stated suddenly, as he examined the piece of bullet on the metal tray. He moved towards Clarence. 'Please rinse it out for me.'

Timidly, Clarence took the tray and did as he was asked. The bullet gleamed faintly in silver under the dim candle light, and he vaguely wondered what it feels like to have one buried in his guts. Blue eyes slid towards the bed, where the wounded stranger remained oblivious to the waking world as Undertaker continued to stitch the gash on his torso. A  _hole_  was more like it, actually.

More than an hour had passed since the man was brought up and in. Clarence had practically dragged the man by his arms through the snow, up the narrow winding staircase, and along the passageway leading up to his door. His rather small stature made it all the more of a challenge to drag the man who seemed to weight a tonne. Not to mention tall.

To add to that, a red trail was left behind, and it caused him to have spent at least a good half an hour out there, cleaning off any evidence that the man was ever there in the courtyard. Red snow were scooped and collected in a bucket, where they eventually melted into a red concoction of blood and water. Thankfully, no one entered the courtyard. There were windows looking down directly onto the yard, like his, and he could only hope that none of the neighbours saw what he did. For once, he was somewhat grateful for the heavy snow, since they helped cover the trail with fresh layers over time as he worked. Along with his pukes as well.

Only after that did he ran off to Undertaker's shop to fetch the eccentric man himself. The man was in the middle of a  _conversation_  with a  _customer_  when he came in breathless. He gave a brief explanation, and without a word, Undertaker took his apothecary's chest, and left behind his customer in the coffin.

The tray with the cleansed bullet was placed on the desk, and he wiped his hands off before nearing the bed in a timorous manner. Fortunately, Undertaker, who was kneeling beside the bed, helped covered the injured side from view, lest he might throw up again. His eyes settled upon the relaxed face of the stranger, the man seemed to be completely out, and possibly, dead. He wouldn't be surprised if Undertaker confirmed him dead, and that he was really stitching up a corpse.

'Do we know who he is?' he asked.

'No,' Undertaker said. 'I found no identification on him.'

'Oh,' Clarence said. He'd hoped to find out the man's name, at the very least. 'There was no weapon on him, was there?'

'None'.

'What of his wound, then?'

Undertaker paused, and then continued the stitching. 'The bullet had gone right through his left side, but I'm quite certain that no damage was done to any organs. And as you know, he'd lost a bucketful of blood, so don't be surprised if he doesn't make it through despite having been tended to.'

'I'd rather he survive; with all the troubles I went through in bringing him up here.'

The Undertaker chuckled. 'Are you sure about that?'

Clarence raised an eyebrow. 'Why?'

'This isn't the only wound on his body. There were several long, deep cuts on his arms from a sharp instrument. They're recent. His body too, is littered with old scars. One, I observed, was an old scar of a gunshot, like this one. If you look closely too, his wrists are raw from friction, perhaps from having been bound with a rope,' Undertaker said, as he continued to finish the stitching. 'This is no ordinary gentleman. You understand  _what_  he might be, don't you?'

Clarence frowned at the revelation, his eyes studying the stranger's face. The man was quite handsome. Clean shaven without a scar on his face. He didn't look like a criminal at all. Nevertheless, looks alone can fool one. This man could very well be a treacherous man whose life was not worth saving.

Thinking back, he probably should have wired the Yard to take actions. Had it been his neighbours who found the man, they may have done exactly that. Or, they would have scurried away, pretending they never saw him. Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

But then again, Clarence didn't know the man. The bleeding from a shot, and the scars; they could be telling a whole different story. Moreover the possibility of having been bound. Was he tortured for a sin he'd never committed? The man could be an innocent; a victim of the world under, like so many others.

'I know, but I couldn't have just left him there to his death. No matter whom he might be.'

Undertaker gave a lopsided grin. 'That doesn't sound like you, earl.'

'It doesn't?' Clarence crossed his arms, and scoffed. 'Well, that's good then, because I  _wasn't_  trying to be  _him_.'

'Who might you be then,  _currently_?'

'Clarence.'

'I think I prefer you being the  _earl_  compared to Clarence,' Undertaker said lightly.

'I do not. And do not call me  _that_  when in front of others. You promised you wouldn't.'

'And so I did, but this man couldn't hear us. He's sleeping as soundly as our  _customers_  back at the shop. For the next few hours, at least,' Undertaker said, finishing the stitch. 'That should do it.'

Clarence watched as Undertaker wiped off any remaining blood from around the stitched skin. The gaping hole had been neatly stitched up, but the reddened skin around it was slightly puckered from the pulls of the thread. There were other minor stitches too, he noticed, on the arms, no doubt the cuts Undertaker spoke of. Undertaker covered the man with a blanket, and stood to his height.

'You drugged him?' Clarence finally asked, as Undertaker stood beside him.

'As sedatives. It'll help him sleep and keep the pain at bay. He can't be up and about yet. Excessive moving would tear out the stitches.'

'I understand.'

'And it's for your safety, earl. If he tries to attack you when he's conscious, it wouldn't be much of an attack.'

' _If_  he tries to.'

Undertaker pulled out a corked flask filled with a dark reddish-brown liquid from inside his apothecary's chest he'd brought along, and handed it to the boy. Clarence recognized it as laudanum. 'Am I to give him this?'

'Six drops for every six hours, and no more,' said Undertaker with a snicker. 'We don't want him dead from an overdose, now, would we? All those dragging and cleaning would have been for nought for you. And I've stitched him up so beautifully too.'

'Or addicted,' Clarence muttered, as he set the flask of laudanum on the desk, along with a syringe and a packet of sterilized needles in a box. He wasn't sure about using laudanum, as the drug was effective in helping a person sleep, but there were side effects to the health too, and worst of all, addiction. It's the same as sending the man off to his death if he were overdosed. And it would be Clarence's fault.

'Are you sure we should use laudanum? Isn't there any other better medications?'

'What would you suggest?'

Clarence shrugged. 'I don't know. What if I accidentally give him too much?'

'I assure you it'll be fine as long as you follow the dosage I gave you. Now, you do remember how to use the syringe, right?' asked the Undertaker.

'Of course,' replied Clarence firmly. Undertaker taught him how to inject liquid into a person using a dead body before, so he should be fine with a living body. It couldn't be all that different.

'Then I suppose there's nothing more to be done here. I will dispose of the shirt and those rags later.' And by 'dispose', Undertaker meant burning them to dust. A careless disposal would arouse suspicions shall anyone come across them. 'I'll give you a larger shirt tomorrow. Just let him wear a shirt of yours for the time being, though it might be a bit small.'

The boy merely nodded as a reply, his eyes fixed on the bloodied shirt and rags in the metal bucket.

'I'll be keeping this too,' Undertaker said, picking up the tray and the bullet, before throwing it into a hidden compartment in the apothecary's chest. Then he turned towards the boy with an amused expression. 'Can I ask you just one question, earl? Your answer will be the compensation for my aid.'

Clarence narrowed his eyes at Undertaker. 'What?'

'Why go out of your way to save this man?' Undertaker asked.

Blue eyes widened at the question, but it wasn't unexpected. With a nonchalant air, he crossed his arms again. 'I saved him because I  _wanted_  to. There's all there is to it.'

'That doesn't sound like you, earl,' Undertaker repeated his earlier words. 'That sounds like what  _Clarence_  would do.'

'I don't care. Perhaps I was or  _am_  him,' he said icily. 'You've got your answer, and your aid compensated. Now leave.'

Undertaker watched the tensed shoulders of the boy, and picked up his apothecary's chest. 'I will, but may I remind you again,  _earl_ , in case you've forgotten, you are not Clarence. You  _never_  will be for as long as you live,' he said coldly.

The boy clenched his fists. Either from anger or sadness, he wasn't sure. 'The earl isn't here anymore,' he said in a low voice.

A heavy, cold hand fell upon his shoulder, and the Undertaker leaned in, his silvery long fringes brushing against his ear. 'Not to me. I don't want to play along with the act. Clarence is nothing but an  _actor_  who masks the real you on this stage. To me the earl is  _real_ , and we both know he's very much alive,' he whispered, before backing away, giving the boy his space once more.

'Don't get carried away with the false identity, earl. Clarence was created to keep you safe, not to put you at risk. Only  _act_  as Clarence, but don't  _be_  him. The earl would've walked away from this man, not save him.'

'It doesn't matter!' Clarence suddenly shouted in frustration. Warm tears pricked at the back of his eyes, but he hid them well. 'It doesn't matter whether it was me or Clarence who saved him, Undertaker! I just wanted to save him. Is that so wrong!?'

A moment of silence passed between them. 'You once told me your goal is to live on.'

Clarence's face twisted from anger to a sick smile. Then he burst into a hollow laugh.

'"Live on", huh?' he said between laughs. 'Did I say that? I don't know any more, Undertaker. Do you call this "living on?"' Then he laughed again. Something within his chest bled painfully.

Undertaker didn't say anything but watched the boy in front of him. The boy he'd known for eighteen years. Only he knows the agony and solitude the boy had went through in the past few years. Clarence puts on a strong façade, but he knew the boy wept wordlessly every night in bed. He knew, because when Clarence had once lived above his shop, he'd find patches of damp tears upon the boy's pillow every morning. He feared the boy would break. Countless times, he felt like reaching out and hold the boy in his arms, offering consolation like he did many years ago when the young earl fell and hurt his knee.

The laughter had ceased into a deafening silence.

'Do forgive me for what I said, earl,' Undertaker finally said, breaking the silence. 'I just don't want to see you hurt. You know you are putting your identity and life at risk by getting involved with someone who could possibly be related to the underworld. You can't be so careless.' Undertaker glanced at the comatose man on the bed, letting Clarence know exactly whom he meant.

Clarence let his breathing even out, sending a lidded gaze to the bed.

'I'm only helping him recover. He'll be off as soon as he's better,' he said. 'I'm not that much of a fool as to go and see all my efforts in keeping my identity hidden for the past five years go down the drains.'

'I'm happy to hear that,' Undertaker said, with a rather wry smile. 'It's for your sake, earl.'

Undertaker took the bloodied fabrics in the metal bucket and shoved them into the same compartment he'd thrown the bullet in. He stopped in the doorway. 'Do come by tomorrow morning. Bodies are piling up from all over the city, and I'm in dire need of your assistance.'

There was no answer, but Undertaker knew the boy heard him well.

The door shut quietly. Minutes passed as Clarence was left with a dying candle light and the stranger in his bed. He stared at the door without actually seeing anything.

Undertaker's words repeated themselves within his mind.  
" _You are not Clarence. You never will be for as long as you live."_

 _But it's all right to pretend that I am him, right? As long as everyone thinks_ I'm _dead._

The old chair creaked when he sat in it, and he gazed at the peculiar items on the desk.  
The books, the flask of tea Elizabeth gave him, the box of syringe and needles, and the drug.  
On the right corner, a little box sat innocently by the melting candle. He frowned at it.

Pulling out the drawer, a quill was fished out and dipped in ink before it danced across a fresh piece of paper.  
Two words were written beautifully in cursive.

He held it up, glaring at the two words that made his life a lonely life to live.  
The two words which had been making his existence a dread to many.

'I really hate my name.'

Deliberately, he held the paper towards the candle and watched as its flame silently trimmed at the paper's edges in black. The flame licked at the still-wet ink.

Ciel Phantomhive

He scowled at it. 'I really,  _really_  hate my true name.'

And Ciel Phantomhive sat quivering upon his favourite spot at the window ledge, as the paper crumbled to ashes on the floor.

He cast a sidelong glance to the stranger in his bed. 'Are you one of those people who would kill me if they knew I'm a Phantomhive?'

Only silence answered him. He gave a desolate sigh.

Remorse is the poison of life, he once read. It surely is true. Drop by drop, the sorrow and darkness of loneliness trickles down to his heart, hardening it to stone. It was frightening whenever he thought of himself turning into a  _creature_ without emotion or compassion.

Nothing but a cold-hearted piece of  _shit_.  
Like all the Phantomhives were.

_It's just not possible, is it? For me to live a normal life._

_Like you often told me, father, "a man born within the Phantomhive family had always been made to live alone till he drew his last."_

_But I don't want that, father.  
I don't want to die alone._

Ciel wrapped his arms around his legs, as streams of warm tears trickled down his cheeks.

_It's so very, very lonely here, mother, father.  
It's foolish... but I too, wish for the time to turn back._

_I hate Ciel Phantomhive._

Yes, Clarence Baker was truly Ciel Phantomhive.  
And no one knows it.

 


	2. A Wrong Turn

_Lester's Square, East London  
December 4, 1893_

I fell in love with the darkness ever since I was young. To me it's so much prettier than the light. That plain black and the nothingness that can be seen in it. It simply lured me in. I never knew that my family was already tied to the shadows from even before I was born. Every one of us Phantomhives were meant to get our hands dirty in serving the Queen. 

When I was little, there were times when I’d overhear my father talking to someone in his office. I would sit in front of the door until it opens to reveal a stranger. Usually they scare me. Some of the friendly ones even greeted me in a language I never heard of. Whenever I ask my father who they were, he’d tell me that they were clients, or his business partners, and they were merely discussing matters regarding trades. I was too young to understand anything and I accepted his lies. From his eyes and the way he talked, I knew he was lying, but I never questioned his motives. I had the feeling that he was trying to keep me away from something, from being immersed in the family’s deeper matters. Filthy matters. 

I remember that father would always carry a gun with him. Even as we sit together as a family with no outsiders at the dining table. For protection, he told me. Though, protection from what; I could only ever guess. It wasn’t like he’d tell me the truth if I were to ask. He hid everything from me. And I was content to live in oblivion from it. If I was honest with myself, I’d say I was afraid to find out the truth behind our family’s ties with those “clients” and “business partners”. 

There was a man who stood out amongst the countless strangers though. He made me cry the first time I saw him from his eerie laugh, but then I realized he never meant harm. His eccentricities never change over time, but Undertaker remains the only person I could put my trust in till this day. Back then he’d play with me in the garden after he was done discussing with my father. He cheered me up greatly and I always look forward to his visits. 

But those memories seemed like such a long time ago. 

My father’s gentle voice and his kind face… I only ever want to remember it that way. And so was my mother. She was soft-spoken, and would always smile. People say that I have her eyes, and now whenever I seem to forget how she looks like, I’d stare into the mirror for the longest time into my own eyes until her face appeared. I seem to be forgetting their faces more and more these days. And I’m frightened of losing those images completely. 

I remember their pained cries and screams even more than their soothing voices. On that night when our house was burnt to ashes, I saw them myself as they dragged their charred bodies on the floor, trying to reach out their raw burnt hands to me. The croaky plead of my father for me to escape. It left a permanent scar in my mind, and I constantly have a nightmare of it throughout these past years. 

My pillow in the morning would always be drenched in tears whenever I wake up. I had no doubt Undertaker saw them when he roused me in the mornings back then after the fire. I used to accommodate the upper floors of Undertaker’s shop, because I literally had nowhere else to go. He took me in and I unofficially became his assistant. I didn’t mind it. Helping him with the funereal business helped occupied my mind. 

Though, about two years ago, I decided to move out and into a flat in the Lester’s Square area, where I live now. The Lester’s Square was becoming too familiar with me, since I frequent the Midford’s Book Shop. That it’d be nearer for me to drop into the book shop became my excuse to move there. In actuality, it was because I was afraid that my presence in Undertaker’s life would endanger him. I never told him this, but I know he knew. He never stopped me from moving out though. Undertaker is the only one who ever truly cares for my wellbeing. 

Perhaps his long-standing acquaintance with the Phantomhive family from before I was born made him feel obliged to help me. Or maybe he’s indebted to my father in the past and is merely paying his debts through taking care of me. 

I looked at my tarnished clock on the wall. The hands are both at twelve. It’s already twelve in the afternoon, and I had yet to go down to Undertaker’s. I didn’t feel like it any way. I was exhausted and my body system was dying out. With this injured man on my bed, I barely slept a wink last night. My body was in constant alert throughout the night. Alert of what; I wasn’t quite sure myself. Was I expecting the man to suddenly sprang from the bed and attack me in my sleep? It wasn’t impossible, despite being under drugs, because the man had stirred a few times earlier. His eyelids fluttered, without truly opening his eyes.

With a yawn, I walked to the windows and stretch my arms, loving the way they popped. The laughter of children caught my ears, and I looked down at the courtyard to see a group of children in shabby clothes playing together. How they remind me of my childhood. My eyes went from them to the dead tree. No one suspects what happened yesterday, it seems. Today was just like any other day. My fingers nimbly went to pluck the little wooden box on the desk. Then I lifted myself up onto the window ledge. The sunlight was barely there, yet when I opened the box, the light seemed intensified as it cuts through the blue stone. A single sapphire stone upon a silver band sat innocently in the middle of the box, wrapped in a crumpled brown paper. 

The Phantomhive family ring.  
My family ring. 

I stroked it gently, as if the smallest vigour would break it to a thousand pieces. It reminds me of my father’s large hand, for he had once worn it upon his forefinger. Taking it out, I tested it on my forefinger, but it sat loose as always. My long, thin fingers never seem to be able to fully grasp the diameter of the ring, even now that I’ve grown up. Giving up, I slid it onto my thumb, the only finger which the ring could fit snugly. I’d always admired the intensity of its blueness, especially under light. There’s a sense of a heavy burden clinging to it, though, as if the burdens of its past masters were absorbed by it. Absorbed, to be passed down to its next master. I could feel it. 

I eased it off my thumb and put it back into the box, before carefully hiding it in a drawer. If anyone were ever to find it in my possession, certainly they would recognize me for who I truly am. That’d be troublesome. Even if they don’t recognize me as a Phantomhive, I’d be hunted down for having it with me. Because everyone thought that the ring was stolen from the day my family and I were murdered. I don’t want anyone claiming Clarence Baker stole it. 

Maybe I should– 

Three knocks upon my door. I was about to enter the bathroom, but the knocks were persistent. I knew who it could be. 

With a heavy sigh, I walked up to it, but didn’t open it. ‘Yes?’

‘Clarence, open the door,’ a voice filtered through the door. 

‘What do you want, Elizabeth?’

‘Just open it. I brought lunch.’

I glanced at the stranger in bed. If I were to fully open the door, surely Elizabeth would see him. I can’t not open the door. She’ll get suspicious. Do I have a choice? No. Is she someone I could trust in? I think so, yes. With a short breath, I swung open the door, and she barged in without a second thought, the smell of fresh bread trailing behind her along with her sweet floral scent. Closing the door, I turned around to find Elizabeth standing in the middle of the room staring at the bed. She was wearing a pale pink dress with a large white ribbon tied around her waist, giving her a slim silhouette. I couldn’t see her expression since her back was to me, so I circled her and attempted to put a space of some sort between her and the bed. 

‘Let me explain,’ I started. ‘This man is–’

‘I don’t want an explanation,’ she interjected. ‘You might lie anyway.’

It was me who was surprised instead of her. I rolled my eyes at her words. She ignored me, and went to put the food on the desk. 

‘Whoever you decide to invite into your home is none of my business,’ she said. ‘I came here because father asked me to. He was worried that you might have fallen ill from your ridiculous excursion last night. And of course, he asked me to bring lunch along. I didn’t think I had to prepare for two, though.’ She looked down once more at the man in bed. 

‘He won’t be up. Not for days at least.’

‘Nice,’ she said sarcastically, looking at the laudanum flask on the desk. ‘Drugged?’

I nodded. ‘Sedative. He’s injured.’

She raised an eyebrow, and seemed to contemplate her next words. ‘Did you save him?’

‘Somewhat.’

‘That’s admirable of you,’ she said flatly, making me unsure if she was honest or being sarcastic.

‘I found him only last night on my way home from the shop. Down at the dead tree,’ I added. 

‘I see,’ was her only reply. She stared at the stranger without a single word, and I couldn’t read her thoughts. Knowing Elizabeth, I thought that she’d be alarmed about this, but instead she stayed composed and calm. 

The whistle of the wind that passes through the crevices filled the silence before it settled between us once more. ‘I only let you in because I trust you, Elizabeth,’ I said seriously. ‘Not a word of this to a soul. Not even your father.’

She bit her lower lip, and her green eyes swung up to me then, reflecting my seriousness. ‘I understand.’ 

With that, she gathered her skirt and went to the door. Opening it halfway, I thought I heard her asking me to be careful before shutting the door with a soft click. Moments later, I went to the window and watched as she cross the courtyard towards the exit. I waited until she vanished from sight, before slumping in relief. 

‘Saving you was perhaps the dumbest idea I ever come up with,’ I said, more to the room than the stranger. 

It wasn’t as if he could hear me. Ruffling my already ruffled hair, I grabbed the lunch on the desk Elizabeth left for me and bite into it, when my stomach growled at the mere smell of them. I wonder how I must’ve looked to her. I don’t think I need to look into the mirror to see the dark rings around my eyes. Not to mention, my back hurts from having to sleep on the cold hard floor with nothing but a thin blanket. I’m such a mess.

This man... whoever he is, I gave him another shot of the laudanum this morning, but I didn’t follow Undertaker’s prescriptions. I lowered the dose, yet the man was still as heavy-lidded as yesterday. Taking the flask, I poured the fresh tea and sipped at it. The tea Elizabeth gave me yesterday was there too, cold and untouched. Luckily she didn’t say anything to that. I broke the bread into halves and pulled off a small chunk from the brick of cheese. I ate in silence then, letting the noon light trace my face.

***

It was half an hour later that I sat naked on a stool in the narrow bathroom as I waited for the bucket to be filled to the brim with water. The water was freezing when I dipped my hand in it, littering my skin with goose bumps. During winter, it was enough to clean your body off using a wet cloth. It was impossible to have a proper bath. Not if you lived like I did; you won’t get that kind of privilege. I visibly shivered as I wipe my arms, my legs, and my torso. The pink welts on my arms stung upon contact with water, from having fallen yesterday.

Then I continued on with washing my face and a part of my hair. I was numb, and my skin was so pale when I finally deemed myself clean enough. I finished it with rinsing my mouth before quickly drying myself off with a towel and dressed. The soiled water was dumped into the drain. I felt somewhat fresher now that I’m cleaner, and perhaps I could take a nap for an hour or two. My flat consists of two rooms, the little bathroom, and my bedroom which also serves as all the other rooms a house was supposed to have. 

It was when I went through the bathroom door that I felt my wrist being seized by a cold hand, and the next thing I knew I was being slammed hard against the wall. My face was harshly grinded against the peeling paint. I shouted, mostly in surprise at the attack. It was also from the pain. Both my mind and my heart raced, and I felt helpless. My breathing came short one after another. 

‘Who are you!?’ growled a voice right beside my ear. 

I couldn’t see who it was, but then my nostrils flared when the sharp smell of antiseptic pricked at my sense of smell. 

‘Speak!’ demanded the stranger. 

‘I– I saved you!’ I choked out a reply. It wasn’t exactly the answer to his question, but my mind was muddled with the thought of being killed. Instead of releasing me, the stranger pressed me further into the wall. I thrashed in agony, but it was ignored. Suddenly, as if the man had just come to his senses, he finally released me from his strong grasp, and I fell to the floor in a heap, gasping for breath. It wasn’t long before I heard the soft sloshing of a liquid. 

‘You... you gave me this?’ asked the man. I looked up to see that the man was holding the flask of laudanum. 

‘Only to keep you sedated,’ I answered, between ragged breaths. I noticed that the man was still high from the drug, for he was unstable upon his feet. He looked like he could’ve passed out any seconds. ‘I meant no harm.’

He narrowed his eyes at me in suspicion, and placed the flask carelessly onto the desk before limping away with difficulty towards the foot of the bed, where his clothes lay. The attack was unforeseeable, and I was truly caught off guard. It took me a few moments before I could finally stand upright. I watched as the man took hold of his boots with trembling hands, and putting them on. He winced, most probably from the wound on his side, when he bent to tie the laces. There were no weapons on him, yet that fact doesn’t comfort me at all. With that kind of strength just now, he could easily kill me without the aid of a weapon. 

‘Who are you?’ I asked carefully. However, my words fell upon deaf ears. I frowned. ‘You were seriously injured and I brought you up here.’ Still no response. 

When the man finished lacing his boots however, he did look back at me. For the first time, I noticed that the man’s eyes were of an unnatural shade. A very deep crimson, as if his eyes were filled with blood itself. They nailed me to the spot, making me unable to utter a single word. 

The man stood to his height, and lightly pressed a hand upon his injured side. He turned to face me, and I involuntarily took a step back out of reflex. I felt like a vulnerable prey about to be eaten by a predator. ‘Are you with Kelvin?’ he suddenly asked, his voice deep and clear. 

I wasn’t expecting the question, and I blinked once. Who was Kelvin? ‘I’ve never even heard of him.’

The man swallowed; his Adam’s apple moving up and down. ‘Why’d you save me then?’

I licked my lips, finding myself lost without an answer. It was the same question Undertaker asked me, and I’d firmly answered that I saved him because I simply wanted to. This time though, I remained silent. When it was evident that I wasn’t going give him an answer, he picked up his coat and pulled it over his broad shoulders. Wordlessly, he went up to the door and turned the rusty golden knob in his hand. It made a small screeching sound. I find myself asking him a question. 

‘What’s your name?’

He stopped then, but didn’t look at me. For a moment I thought he wasn’t going to answer me again, but then in an icy tone of voice, he said, ‘Sebastian.’

It could’ve very well been a lie, but I didn’t care. Knowing his name, even if it was a fake one, was good enough, for I knew I will never see him again. And it was perhaps for the best, for I was damned to live alone for eternity. I didn’t know at the time that Fate already had plans to cross Sebastian’s path with mine again.

***

_Lester's Square, East London  
December 15, 1893_

It’s been nearly two weeks since my unlucky encounter with the brat at Lester’s Square. Whoever the brat was, he seemed frail and weak, and I wondered how he had the drive to stitch up my wounds. He must’ve thrown up bucketfuls throughout the process. Even though I left his meagre flat behind, I never actually left Lester’s Square. I cannot.

When I tried to leave the area that day, I almost bumped into an ex-comrade of mine, the one who betrayed me. Faustus. He was prowling the area, and I was at risk of being discovered. Kelvin couldn’t have sent only Faustus out in search for me. I won’t lie in saying that we are on par in regards of our strength, but I’m weakened by this injury. One common rat was enough to tackle me and put a gun to my head. And so I took refuge in an abandoned lodging not far from the brat’s. It’s still in Lester’s Square area. 

Several times, I saw him pass through the street. I don’t know where he was heading, and I had no interest in finding out. It wasn’t of any importance to me. You might think it was foolish of me to have given him my true name, but the fact was that I doubt the boy would go on and tell anyone that I was ever there in his flat in the first place. The fact that he saved me was more than enough proof that he was too stupid to even understand just what he was getting himself involved in by saving me. 

Call me ungrateful, but for countless times, I had wished for a death god to appear before me and explain why I am not in Hell yet. My life should have ended the day the rats shot me. I was ready to die. I never wished otherwise. Was it just not my time to die? I didn’t want to live, because my life isn’t worthy to be continued. I sinned far more than I’ve ever done any good. So for what purpose was I saved from Death? Curse that brat. Or curse Fate. And curse Death for having forsaken me. 

Kelvin had me tied up in the headquarters’ basement, a punishment for having wanted to leave the group. I ran away when I had the chance to escape. Yes, I wanted to die, but at least not in the dirty basement, and not without a little fight. 

I managed to gun down at least five of them, including the ones who tortured me. It was when I reached Lester’s Square area that I deliberately slowed my pace down as they chased after me, giving them the chance to shoot me down. One of the bullets did hit me. I ran, despite the streams of blood and the pain, because I didn’t want Kelvin’s men to be the last thing I see before leaving this wretched world. Lester’s Square was deserted grounds, but I knew the locals would find my dead body the next morning. 

In other words, I was committing suicide. 

But who would’ve thought that the brat would’ve found me there? He wasn’t supposed to save me even if he did found me. He was supposed to neglect me and leave me to my foreseen death. 

Nevertheless, here I am, living to see another day. Faustus must be having it hard with Kelvin for his inability to locate my body. I sneered at the thought. My wounds are slowly healing, and I could feel my strength coming back little by little as the days passes by. I would wait just a bit longer until I’m capable enough to run away from London. Away from my past life to start anew. I find it laughable that I’m even thinking like this when it was not weeks ago that I thought of dying as a better option. I came to decide to take this as a second chance to truly live once more. To breathe the air of a free life. As a free man. 

If only I knew that it was not possible.  
Not yet. 

It was a few days later. The silver dawn was only starting to break, and London was thick with fog. One could vaguely see anything mere feet from them. Swiftly, I snatched a paper from the news stand. Usually nothing in them interests me, but the headline on the front page grabbed my attention.

Even more so the illustration of a manor house underneath it.

***

_Grafton Street, East London  
December 15, 1893_

I kicked at the trash bin, scattering the balls of crumpled papers within it onto the floor, not caring if Undertaker were to scold me later for it. I was frustrated and mad. Frustrated and mad at myself. How could I have been so careless!? This mess, this _huge_ mess, was entirely my fault. It was avoidable, but I had taken the wrong turn, and now all of London is aware of my existence.

My existence as Clarence Baker, and soon, as Ciel Phantomhive.


End file.
